As the years roll on, it’s nice to be open to new experiences. Till now, for instance, every patient I’ve examined has been alive.

My local hospital called 2 weeks ago. Although I’m on staff, I haven’t consulted on an inpatient there in 20 years.

I ran their skin clinic years ago. Medical residents came to my office for an elective.

Back then, I often stopped by for hospital consults. Most were for incidental trivialities: an MI with an SK or a stroke victim with a capillary hemangioma on his nape that nobody had noticed.

“Did you see the glucagonoma on Sefton 6?” a resident would ask.

“No, they didn’t call me for that. They called me for the seborrheic dermatitis on Sefton 4.”

I no longer visit hospitals; nowadays, the main function of my hospital affiliations is to be able to see patients insured on their referral circles. This year, my hospital made a new rule: All dermatologists must cover consults to stay on staff. I drew 3 weeks in June. For 2½ weeks, nobody called. And then, late one morning …

“Hello, doctor. I’m a nurse in the medical ICU. We need your help.”


“A 25-year-old man died of a drug overdose. We need to harvest his organs. He has skin changes on his back and a blister in his groin, and we need to know that these pose no bar to transplants.”

“I’m stuck in the office,“ I said. “I could come tonight.”

“Can someone else come?” he asked. “Time is critical.”

I told him I would try.

My morning session ended on time. Patient callbacks and lunch could wait. I dashed over to the hospital, phoning the nurse en route. “On my way,” I said, “but I don’t know where the ICU is, and I don’t know your protocols – what forms to fill out and so on.”

He gave me the name of the building and told me to go to the fourth floor. “We’ll have the paperwork ready,” he said.

The parking garage had a free space near the entrance. Asking directions in the lobby, I blundered my way over to the ICU building, newly built and unfamiliar, where the nurse greeted me.

“We appreciate your coming,” he said. “I’ll ask the family at the bedside to leave.”

He introduced a resident, who told me dermatologists dropped by the ICU from time to time to assess issues of graft-versus-host rashes, that sort of thing.

The nurse gave me a yellow paper gown. The patient had his own room. Back in my day, ICUs had no quiet, private spaces.

A middle-aged woman stood by the bed rail – the stepmother of the deceased. What do you say to a newly bereaved family member in this circumstance? “I am your deceased stepson’s dermatology consultant. Pleased to meet you”?

Instead, I said I was sorry for her loss, which seemed pallid but apt. She withdrew.

In bed, was a young man attached to life support. “No track marks,” the nurse observed. “He must have snorted something.”

The nurse and the resident rolled the body over, and I noted the red marks on his back. “Those are from acne,” I said. “No infection.”

Laying him down, they showed me a 1-mm scab at the base of his scrotum. “Appears to be trauma,” I said, “perhaps a scratch. Not herpes or anything infectious.”

Finding nothing else on his integument, I turned to leave. His stepmother was sitting on a chair near the door, her head in her hands. As I passed, she looked up.

In most life settings, including doctors’ offices, there are protocols of behavior, guidelines for how to act, what to say: “We’re all done.” “This should take care of it.” “I will write up a report.” “Nice to have met you.” “Take care.”

None of those would do. Who was I? Why was I there? Even those who had summoned me weren’t quite sure.

I looked down at her tortured face and said, “There is nothing to say.”

At this, I lost my composure, and left.

“I’m not sure what we were concerned about,” said the nurse, “but we appreciate your coming over.” He handed me a sheet of blank paper. I scribbled my nonfindings. Now the transplant wheels could begin to turn.

I left the ICU to its normal goings-on and returned to my office, where the paths of clinical engagement are well worn – and the patients are still alive.

Dr. Rockoff practices dermatology in Brookline, Mass., and is a longtime contributor to Dermatology News. He serves on the clinical faculty at Tufts University, Boston, and has taught senior medical students and other trainees for 30 years. His second book, “Act Like a Doctor, Think Like a Patient,” is available at and Write to him at